Chance Encounter
by ErenYeagerAoT
Summary: She knew forces were at work. Could taste the magic that tainted the air. Could feel the deaths taking a toll on her soul. Yet, she didn't want to get involved. So, what was in the smelly, bed-ragged, middle-aged man that drew her curiosity like a moth to a flame. MOD Female Harry. Harry/Qrow. Major canon plot deviation.
1. - Second Encounter

**Chance Encounter**

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**She knew forces were at work. Could taste the magic that tainted the air. Could feel the deaths taking a toll on her soul. Yet, she didn't want to get involved. So, what was in the smelly, bed-ragged, middle-aged man that drew her curiosity like a moth to a flame. MOD Female Harry. Harry/Qrow. Major canon deviation.**

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**Second Encounter**

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Qrow fell to his knees, clutching at his chest as warmth spread between his fingers, staining them and his gray shirt a bright crimson. He looked down at the blossoming picture of his life's essence spreading over the material, almost with the fascination given to the sprawling, artistic circlets of a tie-dyed shirt.

The Huntsman was astounded.

He had been injured repeatedly over the course of his profession. He was certainly no stranger to it. Everything from semblances to wicked blades made of Dust had cut into him in one way or another over the years. Some wounds had been serious enough to leave scars in spite of his remarkable aura reserves, some had not. But never had he been injured in a way he would consider a truly mortal wound. Mortal to others was not mortal to him. Mortal to the average Huntsman was also not mortal to him, if only because of his stubborn refusal to succumb to something so passé as death.

However, in this case it was not simply because a hole was torn through his chest and very near the vital workings of his heart that his life was threatened, but because he was in the middle of nowhere, too weak to call for help, and surrounded back and front by enemies. Even if he could somehow find the stamina to survive this rending intrusion into his body, these enemies would not let him live any longer than they wanted him to.

Qrow was immediately furious with himself for ending up in this predicament. He was an Elite Huntsman at the beck and call of the Headmaster of Beacon Academy. He was one of the most skilled fighters in all of Remnant. He had lived all the years of his life honing his craft, learning what he could know about battle, war, and the weapons and strategy required for success in those situations. His sister, Raven, and his best friend, Tai, and a few others he would consider his equal in battle prowess. A small percentage of the world, if he could be pardon for being too arrogant in the face of his impending death. Simply put, he was not supposed to be so stupid as to fall into even the best laid traps, nor capable of being bested once caught by said trap.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew that even the most juvenile of fledglings could have avoided his current predicament. So to be caught like this, like a weakling mouse in a trap, was shameful and enraging. How had the act of doing his duty suddenly turned on him? He was the best damn spy Lien could buy, the stalker of most evil doers with a price on their head, those who had committed egregious acts and sins against innocent civilians. He was one of the best source of information known to man, and if he didn't know it, could easily set about to find it. War and peace were, unfortunately, transient things, and it was his duty to be prepared for all possibilities, in case friends became enemies or enemies threatened friends.

Qrow fought off a passing cloak of dimming consciousness and the spinning of his immediate surroundings. It was he who had a hand in training the future Huntsmen and women of Vale, the spies and assassins who would slink through the cloaking shadows in the face of threatening intrigue. Therefore, he knew more than most could currently discover about the humans in which the magic of old flowed through. The same kind who stood around him that very moment, circling him like vultures awaiting the end to a victim's final death throes.

They were powerful, capable of growing even more so the more they studied and practiced their magic, but they were not powerful enough to capture him, never mind kill him. They were still inexperienced. Only his stupidity could have provided that opportunity to them.

He must have looked like a holiday turkey, breaking through the tree line and stepping into their trap, bad guys as his niece would say, all around, as well as the human Huntsmen who has deviated from their code of conduct. Those who had invested their time in fairy tales, myths, and legends, to find powers to use against others. People who took it upon themselves to not only uncover the existence and locations of the hidden relics, but made it their personal quest to eradicate those that didn't join in their demented cause.

It wasn't so hard to believe creatures of Fairy tale existed. In a world where a shattered moon is a normal thing, or the Grimm, abominations borne from darkness, abound, the Maidens were a less conspicuous topic.

He could never understand their motivations. The usual world domination? If so, what will they gain when everything is reduced to ashes? Control over Remnant? Who will they lead? Five? Ten? Twenty people?

Couldn't they see the path they were heading for was wrought with destruction and chaos. Were they really so naive that they did not have the instinct to determine the outcome that it would lead to? Or are they contented with ignoring it in their mad pursuit of power?

These were answers Qrow did not have and, it seemed, would not find in what was left of his life. After over four decades, hunndreds of battles, and hundreds of victories, it seemed Qrow's time was about to come to a decided end. His innate bad luck had finally caught up with him.

Qrow lifted dull, red eyes, full of malice and contempt, to his attackers, who were all standing so proudly in their defeat of him. They were all defected Huntswomen gathered by the Queen, and sent to end him once and for all. What burned his emotions with the intensity of a wildfire, however, was the presence of the two Maidens standing at the forefront of these murderous feminine forces.

Traitors.

The Summer and Winter Maidens, Netsu and Kalt respectively. He never really had a chance to get to know them before they started hurling elemental attacks at him. Though he had seen enough contact with them through Ozpin to be able to recognize them anywhere. Plus, their powers were distinctive on their own. He remembered they way they had pledged allegiance to the Headmasters, how they wanted to get rid of the darkness that inhabited Remnant with a vigour. The magnitude of their defection was immeasurable. Qrow could barely wrap his mind around the concept. Who would willingly fight for a side where it was apparent they were to be discarded immediately after use?

It was the inconceivable idea that both women were Qrow's allies against Salem, turncoats openly joining up with her and her faction, that burned him with such unholy rage.

The Summer Maiden especially, was a disgrace to the title she bore. He knew women of such names who would have done better than this two.

"Huntsman!" The Summer Maiden hissed the epithet with wicked delight, fuelling the bloodlust of the women around him. She smiled and said softly, "Qrow, the Elite Huntsman." Netsu laughed, the sound deceptively beautiful as she leaned forward to peer at him, her voice low so others could not hear her familiarity with him. "Ozpin's little pet bird, felled by mere fledglings. I know your thoughts, Huntsmen. There will be no vengeance in your name. They will never find anything of you by the time we are through."

The woman straightened, tossing back a length of luxurious orange hair, smiling serenely. Next to her, the Winter Maiden bared her teeth in a deceptive mockery of a smile.

Qrow fell forward, putting out a hand to try and brace himself and keep his face out of the dirt. Hopeless situation or not, he would not be remembered as being too easy a kill. His pride would not let him make that kind of an end. There were slain opponents sprawled in the dirt behind the considerably lessened circle that attested to his ferocity as he had tried to save his own life. Men or women, anyone who sought to murder him deserved what they got.

He was aware of the others closing in around him. The power of the magic that clung to the Maidens was overwhelming and unbearable. Energy crackled all around him as they played with their power. Blue arcs of electricity and swirling clouds of ice wriggled between them, almost like a macabre game of monkey in the middle. Qrow's mouth pressed into a grim line as he understood what it meant to be the monkey in this particular case.

The first bolt that leapt from the ring of women struck him in his spine, jolting him into a hard backward arch, his arms jerking to his sides, stretching the muscles of his broad chest and forcing blood to pour out of his wound. The flow came so heavy, so fast, that he felt the gushing heat of it drenching him right down the front of his clothing, the material of his slacks saturating completely in all of an instant.

He felt light-headed, dizzy, and strangely distant as an ice attack froze him to the ground. He could smell the burning of his own flesh as another bolt released him from the ice shackles, forcing him to contort in another direction. He tried to change, to find solace in the form of the Crow he was so much a part of. If only he had the strength to metamorphose, they would no longer be able to harm him. But the time had passed for that. He had misjudged his situation and was now too wounded and too weak to concentrate on even a transformation as simple as that.

He cursed himself for being such a fool, for walking into this feminine trap. Long has his allies warned him to lay off booze and women, if only he had listened to them. Not that he would give up on them, but... it's the thought that counts.

He had known since they had first realized the traitors' betrayal, that anyone could be a victim of the duo's knowledge of him and his allies, their individual importance, their power? The Maidens knew so many names, so many facts. Indeed, she could lead Salem and her cohorts to each and every member of Ozpin's faction.

He would be but the first, Qrow realized, frustrated rage burning a second hole in his chest. Next would come the Headmasters, Glynda, the General, or perhaps Ozpin, the leader himself. And he would not be there to do his duty or protect them. Qrow thought about Tai, Yang and Ruby. Ruby, beautiful daughter of a worthy leader who had her mother's silky black hair and silver eyes. She would be haunted down? Killed? Treated like nothing more significant than the stray fly that needs a good, hard killing swat? All just because of a gift she knew nothing about. And he knew Tai and Yang wouldn't sit and watch it happen; they would fight, and die.

Qrow grieved for his family, blaming himself for not doing a better job of keeping himself safe and strong so that he could be their protector.

The Huntsman felt blackness creeping across him, but it was as much from understanding that he had failed his people and his allies as it was from the deadly loss of blood. He heard feminine laughter, contorted into an ugliness of killer joy, a sound no woman should ever make in her natural state, be she Faunus or human.

Qrow finally collapsed, rolling onto his back in the grass until he was trying to focus on the stars above him. He was distantly aware of the wicked women toying with him, sending sadistically playful bolts of power through him and sporadic slashes of ice. Burning and cooling him in equal measure. The black sky blurred into streaks of light and dark. The warmth of his blood seeped into the dried leaves and grasses beneath him. What he would not give in that moment for the simplicity of a rain shower. A final act of defiance for him from the heavens, soaking the ground so any electricity sent into him would lash back onto his murderers.

It was not to be. He couldn't even muster up the last dredges of his aura. He had known infants stronger than he was in that moment. All he had left were his thoughts.

He regretted never having a family of his own. Though who could fault him. He was a mess. No one wanted to take care of a man and their eventual kids, no on wanted that hassle.

He regretted not saying bye to Tai and his daughters. He knew Ruby would keep on awaiting his arrival until Yang or Tai told her of his death. He knew how crushed she would be. It may very well be the thing to rob her of her childish innocence.

The clarity of knowing one's death was a double-edged sword. He would never again transverse upon open miles of mountains and naked beaches as a bird. Never wash away his sorrows with a good ol' bottle of liquor. To forever be deprived of the joy of these things, to die with these regrets, made his heart rebel with despair and outrage. He opened his mouth to roar with the rage striking through him, but was beyond creating any sound. He forced himself to be satisfied with the screaming of his soul.

To his wonder, Qrow heard the scream echo in the distance.

It was a wild, savage thing. Unbelievably beautiful, and making him shiver as it vibrated across his nerves. He was succumbing to his own internal night, but the scream was repeated and he found himself fighting to hear it, to understand what it meant. The cold of his body was replaced with an inexplicable flush of heat and he felt his senses trying to return to him, to work for him, trying with every last available cell to hold on to that primal and stunning sound.

But he was too close to his death. With frustration clawing through him, he succumbed.

Belatedly, he wondered how his sister would react to the news of his death. Knowing her, she would probably scoff and say that he'd died because he was too weak.

* * *

**Chance Encounter **

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A scream tore across the expanse of the forest meadow, making the circle of women forget their dying prey as inexplicable fear coursed through them. Humans were born with instincts like any other species, and they knew as surely as they knew their names that it was not wise for them to remain in the path of the beast that made such a sound. For the noise made didn't belong to those of the Grimm variety; it was something foreign, an unknown. It did not matter that they were a power unto themselves. Nothing could circumvent that inbred terror of prey fearing a predator.

The Maidens backed away, eyes wide and magic blossoming forth as they began to levitate from the ground, hoping height would provide a sense of safety they simply could not feel with both feet on the ground. When it was still not enough, they could only ease their panicking hearts with a full retreat, flying away and above the trees, fleeing for home or any place they associated as being one of true safety.

Some of the Huntswomen were lucky enough to be remembered by the fleeing Maidens and were levitated into retreat with them. Those who were not so lucky took to heel and bolted wildly into the tree line, taking only a minute before they were nothing but an amusing, distancing sound of crashing underbrush.

Out of the tree line, not a great beast but a small black cat, appeared. She stalked through the deep grasses in a hunting circle, the rotation of her shoulder blades as she walked mesmerizing, her emerald eyes fixed on the bloodied body.

The black cat raised her head, stopping mid-step, testing the air as the stench of the invading women faded, though the magic they wielded – elemental – left its trace. The body lying in the centre of the clearing was the only remaining scent of any strength, and the cat began to advance on the hapless victim.

She was so close to the unconscious human she could touch her muzzle to him. She did so, testing his scent. Under the blood was the unmistakable musk of maleness tainted by the rich, heady scent of alcohol. It elicited a disgusted purr from the beautiful cat.

A shudder racked through her. Heat rolled off her as if from an open fire. Under the fractured light, her flank softened like clay. The hair melted and vanished. A black haze fogged the air. When it evaporated, the cat had become a woman, clad with nothing but a necklace with an eye-catching pendant.

Harriet, marked by that pendant as the Master of Death, took in a deep calming breath. She may not have been in this world for long, but she knew this man. Knew his name and importance to the Headmaster of Beacon. She knew of the transformation magic that clung to him as much as the scent of alcohol did.

But what she didn't know was why she was drawn to him. Although he was a man of skill and power and undeniable strength, she knew that that wasn't what drew her curiosity. It was at the tip of her tongue, the forefront of her mind, yet, she was unable to come to a suitable conclusion.

It was a startling sight though, to see an Elite Huntsman like Qrow Branwen nearly dead.

Harriet reached out with a tentative hand, her fingers threading through short black locks not too unlike her own, though his were greying. And spiky where hers was in a ponytail, held together by a bone-white stick. It was her hair that she reached for next, pulling one tress between her teeth, rending through the inch-thick coil of silken ebony. The lock curled around her wrist, as if unwilling to leave the body it had been cleaved from. She tossed back her head, ignoring the droplets of blood that sprinkled from the torn ends of the severed strands that yet remained attached to her scalp – it would grow back soon. She leaned over the Huntsman, pushing open the tattered shirt he wore, licking her full lips slowly as she took the coil of raven hair and let it curl around and around, until it covered the wound in its entirety.

Blood immediately seeped into the black filaments, blending with the droplets already welling out of their severed ends. The wound instantly began to coagulate, the hair turning into a white bandage that stayed fast to the gaping hole, plugging it quite effectively.

She could do nothing about his blood loss at the moment and could not leave him where he was lest his attackers decide to return and finish him off. His breathing was so shallow, so weak, that if not for her keen hearing she would not have been able to mark it. Luckily, she knew these woods well and could find some excellent shelter. Then she would see what she could do to aid him.

Harriet needed to decide the best and shortest route to reach where she would be able to care for him, and the best way to get them both to that place of concealment. Preferably before the Grimm showed up.

Fortunately and unfortunately depending on how one looks at it, she could sense none but herself in the area. It would be a good choice to find aid, a place where she would find a little assistance in his care, but it was not a logical option given the clear urgency of the situation. The ideal alternative of taking him to his own people, well, that was an even farther-fetched possibility considering they were even farther away from a settlement.

The distance from help worried her most because the Huntsman needed medical aid and she doubted she would be able to give him anything near what he would require. He was from a different world and probably not as receptive to her world's ways of healing. It could very well be the equivalent of giving a human patient to the care of a veterinarian. The veterinarian medic could be at the height of his expertise, but even his best care could do more harm than good.

Her knowledge of their anatomy was fairly limited, Merlin only knew that their resemblance could only be physical and not internal.

The witch rose to her feet, her form lengthening into her considerably short stature. Nude, as she was at present, or fully clothed, there would never be a doubt as to her sex. Though short, she was lushly curved in spite of the obvious cut of her muscular, fit body. She was a warrior in her own right, and it radiated from every inch of her. Her enigmatic way of smiling and the natural flirtation in her stride only added to the imagery.

The Master of Death seemed to make a decisive choice on her next course of action as her sharp, emerald gaze took in all of her surroundings one last time.

In spite of his impressive mass and length, with a flick of her wrist, he was levitated, following closely as she began to stride across the field. A burst of magic and everything lighted up in sharp contrasting shades of black and white. It was bright as day for her as she moved with her burden into the trees.

They might have presented quite a sight had anyone been close enough to see them, but a quick scent of the air assured the witch that all enemies had retreated to places unknown, and all other living creatures had pretty much followed suit. They wouldn't even know that the scream came from a beast barely the size of a torso, increased to such volumes using magic. It was imbued with a minor compulsion charm, only those of great will could overcome the urge to flee immediately.

As she moved through the forest, picking her way with purpose of direction and leaving as little a trail as possible, she recalled that there had been more than humans in the party that had ambushed this warrior. She was aware of the Maidens, women of elemental powers popular in Fairy Tales read to children. She didn't know who was in the wrong or right between the affected parties but could hazard a guess, and to be fair, her guts are always never wrong. It didn't hurt that it was pretty much obvious when you take in the taints one side carried. If you are of magic, and your heart has gone to the dark side, there's a foul stench that would follow you, heralding your presence to those sensitive.

She glanced back at the man trailing through the air after her. It had been nearly half a year ago, on the eve of Christmas, a village's celebration had been shadowed by brutal run-ins with the Grimm. Harriet had woken up due to the noise, confused and disoriented, she hadn't been able to see a Beowolf's claw inches away from her tender flesh. It was this battle that had given her a glimpse into the capabilities of the Elite Huntsman. He had impressed her. So much so that finding him in this predicament was somewhat baffling.

Harriet stopped abruptly, her ears twitching as she took in short whiffs of breath, scenting the area for danger. She felt animals scurrying beneath the remnants of deciduous vegetation on the forest floor, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The silence was understandable, considering the potent magic that leaked out of her, but the blood spoor trail the Huntsman was leaving behind could attract another predator.

They were over a mile away from the original battle site and there was a stream nearby. She could take the time to bathe and dress the rest of the wounds and cover their trail more efficiently, as was her instinct, to prevent them from being tracked.

Harriet decided to risk being tracked. There would be water where they were headed and she was quickly running out of time. As she moved with remarkable speed, she continued to consider the Maidens who had helped perpetrate this crime.

She knew not the reason, nor why the situation had escalated to the point it was in. All she knew was that the Maidens were surely connected to Ozpin, just as the Huntsman was. The missing puzzles was the why's and how's.

She found the cave she was looking for about an hour later. Almost immediately after the entrance, the cave sloped dramatically downward, the rock smooth, cold, and damp beneath her bare feet. It took all of her balance, strength, and even her fingers to keep from skiing down that slippery surface and landing in the chilled underground lake of mineral water that began at its end. She quickly navigated the thin ledge that rimmed the water. The minute she left a wet footprint on a dry surface, she gingerly laid him down on the clean stone.

She sat down beside him, more than a little out of breath, drawing her knees up so she could rest her aching arms on them. She needed to help him, the urgency of that was beating at her, but she also needed to give herself a minute to shake off the blinding headache the journey had given her. After some time, she stood up to her full height as she lightly leapt over the Huntsman and headed to the lake.

A soft thud heralded her return, with a conjured sack with gathered herbs and bottle filled with water in her hand, she knelt beside him to tend to him.

She ripped his shirt off, what was left of it, even being forced to carefully pull out shredded bits of it from scorched skin, vanishing the ones she couldn't with a gesture of her hand. Sometimes magic should be used in conjunction with smuggle first aid to get an accurate or proper response. The worst wound, the one over his heart, was already cared for and healing. The blood fused with her magic that leaked from the shorn ends of the warm, living tendrils had acted like a disinfectant and a healing balm. However, she could not use her hair for all of his wounds. It would damage her too much. The hair could grow but the magic used could take a toll on her.

Instead, she satisfied herself with cleansing his cuts and burns with water and dressing them with bandages she conjured. Aura healed physical wounds very fast so by night, most of it ought to he gone. But the chest wound would take more time, as would a series of others that pierced his shoulder, hip, and thigh down his right side.

He had been lanced through with bolts in these three wounds, no doubt projectiles from crossbows or some other propellant-type weapon. One had gone clear through the muscle of his thigh, but there were metal rods protruding from the other two injuries. Due to it being a foreign object, if left to it's own device infections may soon be the order of the day. These invading weapons must be excruciating for him, although, unconscious and in shock as he was, he was hopefully feeling no pain.

She quickly vanished it, beginning fresh bleeding by removal, and now pressed balled pieces of his shirt to it, tying them tightly around for pressure.

She bathed his entire torso, inspecting every wound and treating them with the herbs she had foraged as she did so. She found herself impressed by his physical fitness. This was naturally true for many of the Huntsmen and women. With high metabolisms from their active lifestyle and the innate ability to regulate caloric intake with activity, overweight Hunters were rare.

But this, she thought to herself as she traced one finger over the defined cut of his right pectoral muscle, this was the body of a being who had trained and honed himself into an artful weapon. He was built in a way that wouldn't hinder his flexibility and streamlined body movements. She had seen this male move in battle, so quick and lethal, and she remembered it had left her quite breathless with fascination then as well.

Harriet caught herself in the realization and immediately withdrew from the unproductive touch and the sensations that went with it. She turned her attention back to his urgent need of healing. She gently probed the bolt that pierced his hip and found it difficult to determine its placement through the slacks he wore.

Harriet reached to unbutton the fly of the pants, tugging a little at the loosened trouser in an attempt to see the damage better. Finally, she simply gave in to the inevitable and vanished the cloth entirely stripping him completely. Free to work now, she erased the second projectile and bathed all injuries on his muscled legs. She washed blood out of the hairs that curled over them in a light dusting of ebony, using medicaments on the wound burned deeply into his hip.

These were the wounds that would not heal so quickly. She suspected the wound over his heart had gone deep. Whatever the projectile was, it was infused with dust as it had crushed and torn the area leaving tell-tale burns, but nothing black enough to indicate the object might still be festering and smouldering within the now-closed injury.

Once she had bathed him completely in the soothing mineral water, cleaned and wrapped every wound she could find, and assessed him for ones she perhaps could not see, she took the time to wash his blood from his hair. She felt more relaxed as she did this. The scent that had been so mind-numbingly disgusting, most likely from the alcohol he drinks, was thankfully washed into the lake as the water rolled down the stone and back to where it had come from.

When his hair was clean, streaked with a thousand different shades of grey now that it was wet, she quickly cleaned her body, conjuring some clothes on her.

She had hoped to leave the Huntsman alone, but . . . She couldn't leave him. What was in the smelly, bed-ragged, middle-aged man that drew her curiosity like moths to flame?

She tried to convince herself that she couldn't leave him alone with just wards as protection. That he had lost so much blood and there was no blood-replenishing potion with her, that she had to stay because she had no idea if the wound would be further hindered as a result of the loss of blood. To be honest, he was hardly out of danger just because she had dressed his wounds. Yeah, that was reasonable arguments to stress her need of being with him.

A series of steps carved into the cavern led downward far more safely than the original slope had at the entrance to the cave itself. Plus, this far back everything was cool and dry. It was perfect for what she wanted to do.

With her palms held open before her, she willed her magic round the cavern.

A mattress appeared in the centre, formed from the softest material she could think of. A fireplace sprung from the wall, its chimney exiting out of the mountainside. Situated beside it was a couch.

She moved to the mattress and careless laid her patient on it. The male sank deeply into the soft comfort of it, and she immediately covered him with a quilt that appeared along with it to keep the constant chill of these underground caverns off him as he healed.

She considered building a fire, one to warm the place, but with enemies who were itching to kill this Huntsman, a smoke trail would not be worth the risk. So long as he was this ill, she was very much alone. Powerful or not, all Harriet had to do was look at the felled warrior to know she would have odds no better than his if pitted against the Maidens. One she could handle without much difficulty, two would pose a slight problem but still very much doable. Two Maidens and untold amount of Huntsmen and women . . . Even Merlin wouldn't be getting out of that fight unscathed. Probably with missing limbs.

He would become a mad-eye moody.

Even as she curled up into the deeply plush cushions of the couch, she cringed, contrasting with the smile on her lips. She slept off, her smile widening as her thoughts drifted to happier times.


	2. - Double Encounter

**Chance Encounter**

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**Well, heads up. This chapter is the reason for the M Rating. Enjoy.**

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**She knew forces were at work. Could taste the magic that tainted the air. Could feel the deaths taking a toll on her soul. Yet, she didn't want to get involved. So, what was in the smelly, bed-ragged, middle-aged man that drew her curiosity like a moth to a flame. MOD Female Harry. Harry/Qrow. Major canon deviation.**

* * *

**Double Encounter**

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Harriet woke feeling much better many hours later. For one, she could smell the distinct ionized odour of rain. There was a good-sized storm just beyond the cave entrance. The pressure was unmistakable, even if she couldn't hear it with her keen hearing. This bathing of the Earth would hide what remained of their trail to the cave. She suspected that in their usual overblown sense of arrogance, the magic-users were not likely to think they had failed in killing the Huntsman, and as a result would see no need to double-check. However, with the Huntswomen amongst them, she could not assume typical behaviours in this situation.

Harriet sat up on the couch, stretching out one long limb after the other, soft, contented vocalizations accompanying each one.

The conjured furniture was really nice. But alas, all good things must come to an end.

She rose to her feet, shaking back her hair as it immediately curled into its proper places.

With a simple gesture of her hand, the cloth she wore vanished. In its place, a cute little garment slid instantly into place, held on her by the thinnest of straps at her shoulders and her bust. Which was more apparent as the low, scooped neckline left her in display. The floating skirt's hem fluttered over the tops of her thighs, a soft whisper of sensation that made her rub her fingertips with pleasure over the crushed pile of the fabric. Harriet glanced into the mirror that appeared in front of her and smiled as she admired the blue velvet and the way it shone as the garment drifted airily with even a twitch of motion.

Harriet then padded across the chilly stone to the fireplace, where she arranged wood and kindling, starting a comfortable blaze without worrying that smoke could be trailed in either rain or darkness. Evening was definitely on them. Harriet felt guilty that she had not roused to check on her patient in all of this time, but it was senseless to reprimand herself. There was not much she could have done for him in any event.

She checked on him immediately after the fire took hold, striding across the little distance that separated them.

She gingerly rested one knee onto the mattress, sitting back on that heel, half on, half off the bed. She slowly began to inspect his injuries. As she had suspected, most were healing nicely, some even to the point of pink, new skin. She removed the bandages from those places.

The Dust wounds were not doing quite so well, also as expected. It was healing, as the scabs could attest, but at a rate so slow, snails could match and probably eclipse it.

Simply put, he needed proper medical attention.

She didn't know any muggle hospital nor medic in Remnant, having not seen the need for one. The one she did know was a world apart. And even if she was able to get Pumphrey all the way here – everything's possible with magic, she was told – she could not leave Hogwarts without a medic. Merlin knew the utter chaos it would bring. So a visit to the muggle hospital would have to wait until he became stronger. And she couldn't leave the Huntsman alone for long while he was vulnerable to go looking for a medic. However, she would need to hunt for food if there was none in the cave. It seemed likely that there won't be any. And she couldn't resort to magic for this problem seeing as conjured food is not a suitable substitute for human consumption. One can not create food from nothing and eat it, cause in the end they eat nothing.

Harriet gently rewashed the wounds on the warrior and dressed them with clean bandages. The only one she did not touch was the one bandaged with her hair. That would care for itself and was best left alone. She pulled the covers back over the Huntsman's chilled skin. It was a good sign. If he were to grow hot, it would mean he was fighting a fever, and that was the last thing the warrior needed. He was still terribly pale, perhaps even a little too cold to the touch, but he did look as if he were breathing easier. She could hear his steady heartbeat, stronger than it had been.

The witch reached to push back the now-dry tendrils of his hair, the surprisingly soft silk of it slipping through her fingers. From his body odour, she had presumed his hair would be hard, harbouring untold amount of pathogens or decayed skin cells. It was, to her greatest shock, not. Just stunk slightly of alcohol, a scent she was quickly coming to realise as his.

Harriet found her hand drifting down his forehead, fingertips touching each black brow with a curious tracing of their arches. It was a rich, ebony colour, offsetting the lighter shades of his hair unlike hers that matched to a tee.

_He had such a good face,_ she marvelled as she traced a thumb over well-defined cheekbones, a strong masculine nose, and a lean, withered, angular jaw dotted with whiskers. It was so rugged, and yet somehow boyishly beautiful. Perhaps, she mused, it was the fullness of his mouth, almost feminine in its way, that foiled the attempt at being wholly toughened.

Harriet laughed at herself as she realized what she was doing. She stood up, shaking out her hand as if in punishment to make it behave itself next time. She pressed back a smile at her silliness and moved to the front of the cave. She stood in the opening for a long moment, listening to the rain and smelling the sleeping forest as best as she could. Rain masked even her formidable abilities of sniffing out prey or predator that roamed an area. This skill was particularly useful during the Hocrux hunt, when all they had to worry about was Ron's betrayal.

The familiar irritation coursed around her skin, followed by the dizziness the transformation into her avian form brought. Her face began to stretch out, her lips pointing straighter, becoming longer until it taped into a beak. Long talons grew from her feet, her toes merging into three toes, black and scaly. One toe emerged from the end of both heels.

Her skin started to itch and burn as she sprouted black feathers all over her body. Her spine tickled as long tail feathers burst from it. The bones in her hand cracked, realigned, feathers sprouting into wings.

Then, with a loud squawk, she flew into the cold autumn wet of the forest.

. . .

Qrow had not moved so much as an inch in the hour she was gone. She checked him for fever, careful not to drip on him. She was soaked head to toe, her hair streaming as she padded closer to the fire. She settled onto a small, cushioned stool near the dry warmth of the blaze, using a cloth and the heat to try and dry her hair.

She ought to have remained in her cat form, fur being so much easier and faster to dry, but she considered it would be unwise to do so. Though he could transform himself, she had a feeling he would be distrustful of anyone else that could. For all she knew, the skill was a particularly rare one. Or a gift of some sort. Only wielded by a limited amount of people and none else.

And she knew, because it's what she would do in this kind of situation, the reaction she would exhibit if awoke in a new unfamiliar place would either be fight-or-flight. In the past, it had been flight. That is, until she had learnt to harness the power that coursed through her veins to unheard lengths. Now, it's more or less always fight.

A Huntsman, even in a weakened state, was nothing to fool with. If she had learned one thing over the centuries, it was not to underestimate the powers of a warrior who felt threatened. A caged animal is the most dangerous, as the saying goes. Qrow was bound to feel endangered by her presence alone, never mind the fact that he was already wounded. It would scream suspicious to any sensible person.

The witch turned closer to the fire, her back to the sleeping Huntsman as she continued to fuss with her hair. She had spitted one of the rabbits she had caught earlier and it was now rotating quite nicely in the fire, the action done through the help of magic. She had no rotisserie, and it's not like it would appreciate its nearness to the female whose body chemistry was likely to cause it to function at less than peak, or destroy it. She, or rather the Huntsman, was lucky that there was a natural source of water, plenty of wood for a fire, and a forest full of food just beyond the entrance. He could have been found near death in a desert like her or in a ludicrous place like the mouth of a volcano.

When her hair was mostly dry, settled once more into happy, tubular coils, she rose to dress herself and set about preparing a stew and a soup from the remaining rabbits and the wild turkey she had caught. She shredded herbs and roots into both pots – conjured of course – and then allowed them to cook slowly in the fire, suspended in swing-armed cauldrons.

Due to her having three forms – raven, cat and human – she very much appreciated a wide variety of culinary tastes. One of her favourite things was wild salad, all the greens and buds of the forest fair game, or in autumn, nuts, herbs, tuber roots, and berries, so long as they were not poisonous. In her human form, she preferred salad and meat, both cooked and raw, to an extent. This meal was not so much for herself, in any event. It was designed for her patient. The herbs used to flavour the dishes were not merely delicious, they were also quite medicinal. Everything that went into the soup and the stew would serve its purpose toward helping him heal and regain his strength.

As she cooked, Harriet filled her time by re-cataloguing her memories. While it wasn't really necessary as she doubted anyone of this world would have the power to break through her mental defences. Not to talk more of viewing her innermost thoughts. She was no longer the little girl that could be mind-raped by a b-rated movie vampire.

After another hour passed, the witch ladled some of the piping hot soup into a wooden bowl, dropped in a spoon, and made her way to her patient's side. Once more she knelt on the bedside, settling back on her heel as she held the bowl in one hand and stimulated him with a rubbing motion on his arm with the other. She didn't expect he would wake right away, but she would at least try every fifteen minutes until he did and she could get some nutrition into him.

When the warrior suddenly burst into life, Harriet was caught completely off guard. He exploded into movement, seizing her by both arms and hauling her violently over his body. Her back slammed into the mattress, her breath leaving her in a rush. He pinned her beneath himself painfully, his strength formidable even in his weakened state, his weight an overwhelming force. Harriet did not make a single sound, not even as the boiling hot soup cascaded down her legs. She made no noise or movement that would be mistaken as an act of provocation. The only thing she did do was to encircle the wrist of the hand clenching around her throat with the firm, staying fingers of both hands. She would not provoke him, but neither would she let him throttle her to death.

The warrior's red eyes were wild with confusion and pain, his movements highly detrimental to his carefully dressed wounds. Harriet was immediately aware of the scent of fresh blood, and her eyes flicked down to the wound on his chest. She saw a fresh stream of blood slipping over his skin, dripping from the ridges of his abdomen onto her dress. His immense body was crushing hers, his hips and legs nailing her to the soft mattress as he braced half the weight of his torso on one hand and supported the rest on the hand attempting to cut off her air supply.

Qrow blinked, trying to take in everything he was seeing through a hazy wall of pain. He was aware that he was trapping one of the females, that he could break her neck in a breath if he wanted to, but there was something not quite right about what he was seeing and feeling and he needed a precious moment to figure it out. He looked down into wide, green eyes, feeling a familiarity in them that was disturbing. There was also something about the piece of jewellery beneath his hand. It prevented him from having a perfect grasp on her slender neck, but somehow he knew that was not the most important thing about it.

The next thing he was aware of was that he was completely nude and that she was not much better off in a short, damp skirt that was gathered up around her bared hips. This made her decided lack of fear impress itself on him. Not that he would take advantage of such a situation even if had she been his worst enemy, but how would she know that he meant her no harm? Considering the fact that he was the one in the dominant, aggressive position, her bravery seemed either very impressive or very foolish.

He looked away from her, his eyes darting around the room, more pieces to a puzzle that still seemed to have too many gaps. He could smell food, was aware of his hunger and unusual weakness. He noticed he was bandaged and healing, and not lying dead on the forest floor. It seemed an inane thought, but it was an important ingredient in his ability to understand what was going on.

His hand loosened slightly as he looked back to the female beneath his body. She had an intriguing body, quite strong for a female and impressively fit. She was also full of soft, abundant curves just where a male would appreciate such things most. He could feel all of this more than he could see it, just as he felt her appealing warmth, the satin smoothness of the skin brushing his thighs and calves, and the rapid rise and fall of the breasts crushed beneath the weight of his body as she drew for breath.

He became aware of her scent, this aspect also somehow familiar, even though it was layered beneath the aroma of food. It was attractive enough to distract him from his pain, the fight-or-flight reaction he had woken up with twisting with intriguing ease into the powerful stirring of male interest. Powered by adrenaline, he was far deeper into the reactions of his instincts than the civilization of his intelligence. Huntsmen and women, no matter how much they looked and acted, were still humans. Susceptible to their baser nature. It wasn't his fault therefore, that he let his libido do the thinking.

When the Elite Huntsman took a long breath in through his nose, Harriet became aware of the change in his scent, a sharp spike of the rich musk that was always present on him. She felt her stomach tighten with instinctive anticipation, even as her mind rebelled against the feeling, understanding that she was in a fair amount of danger and that all of this behaviour was primitive and unjustifiable. For her. For him, waking into a world of confusion, it was not. She was the one with her senses about her, she lectured herself sternly, her fingernails digging into the wrist that still pinned her head to the pillow.

The Huntsman touched his lips to her; she felt them part just enough to imprint a wisp of moisture, like the barest of kisses, against her cheek. Harriet felt a wash of chills flowing down the front of her body in inexplicable and wild response. Her breasts grew taut beneath the heavy velvet fabric of her dress, the pointed crests of her nipples rubbing his chest in an inadvertent flirtation of response.

Qrow made a low, appreciative sound in his throat before raising his head from her again, his ruby eyes bright but smouldering as they drifted down to her breasts. The vocalization called to Harriet, very deeply, sending a rapid rush of heat and awareness bursting across her skin. She felt her mind turning away from logic and reason as the primitive reply to that call bubbled up from her own throat.

Her answering song had a dynamic effect on him, and she could feel the evidence of it solidifying between their bodies. Her emerald eyes grew wide as she felt that male weight and hardening heat against her inner thigh. Just like that, an instantaneous metamorphosis, and for some reason just the understanding that she was responsible for it melted her body from the inside out. She inhaled a quick, full breath of emotion. She was suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling, this rush of adrenalized sexual response that she had always tried to tell herself she was not in the least curious about. And she hadn't been…until this very moment.

It was raw and base, like the driving hunger that followed a long hibernation. She felt sensations darting around inside her, hot and intrigued, crying out a call that she couldn't hope to understand. She was poorly prepared and felt it keenly. Harriet was a creature of instinct, but she was also one of complete bodily control. Until that moment, she would have sworn there was no part of her that was a stranger to her. That was the only way it could be for any being that altered the shape and nature of who it was and the world around with the will of its mind alone. Yet, there was no control in and of that moment, and her entire being was now very much a stranger. She was first flushed, and then chilled. She was terrified, but craving. She was seeping liquid heat, and locking up in solid awareness. The contradictions battered her from the inside out and she felt wildly, deliciously out of control of it all.

The warrior felt the female's heart pounding madly beneath him, the sensation causing a curl to one side of his lips as he looked down at her. She was aroused, he could smell it, feel it, and hear it. He was aware of how he was reacting to this female entwined with his body. He was fully aroused against her; her hot skin, so soft and smooth like a thick satin, cradled him. He felt a tremor shimmer through her and he was pressed with the urge to rub himself up against her supple body. It made no impression on him that he was still weak and wounded. His mind was little more than an endorphin-pushed rush at that point. He was blind to everything but the sensations and the desires of his instinctive thoughts.

Qrow was no stranger to women — or rather, their rejection to his advances – so this was something quite remarkable. Never had a female reacted so strongly, so quickly, to him. Never had they regarded him with nothing more than disdain. Except, perhaps, that other time. But he had refused to acknowledge it then for what it was, excusing it as part of the heat of battle. It had been the attraction of creatures who were joined by the common thread of one warrior appreciating the dynamic skills and flush of battle upon another. Other than that, the very idea of it had been utterly appalling because the woman in question had been—

That was when recognition finally set in.

Qrow's eyes went pale, just as the rest of him did, as he finally realized exactly who it was he held pinned beneath his body. Who it was he was feeling this outrageous craving for. And who it was that was responding with an inconceivable reciprocation of heat and interest.

"Harriet," he hissed, his hand finally leaving her throat to reveal the intricately carved necklace-pendent combo she's never without. Qrow rolled off her and out of the bed in such a swift motion that he ended up staggering as he gained his feet. As he moved, he jerked a sheet off the bed to wrap around his body. He was not doing so out of shyness, but he would be damned if he would stand naked, aroused, and vulnerable in front of the Master of Death.

* * *

**Chance Encounter**

* * *

Ozpin pushed away one of the dusty tomes that had come from his library, an archive of Remnant's vast histories, fairy tales, myths and legends located in a hidden alcove in his personal suite in Beacon Academy. There were three of the enormous books awaiting his attention, but he ignored them and began to pace the floor of his office in a sign of agitation he found himself repeating far too often these past two days.

To say he was worried would have been an understatement. In spite of the fact his confidant and trusted spy had gone missing, uncharacteristically without a single word to anyone as to where he would be, he should know Qrow well enough after all these decades to realize the Huntsman was quite capable of taking care of himself. But these were volatile times. Allies into enemies, creatures of myths being discovered and children born with powers of old. Magic responding with such an intensity he had not enjoyed for over a thousand years, if indeed he had ever enjoyed it as it had brought nothing but continued suffering.

This was why he was researching tomes of knowledge, history, and legends that had the dust of the ages on them. Some of them had not been opened in over a millennium, hiding secrets and thoughts that not even Ozpin, a millennium old himself, knew about. He was hoping that within them he would find clarity in all of the chaos of the time. However, the archaic nature of the ancient language made the going slow and difficult.

The best person for this task would be James, the kingdom of Atlas' General. However, despite the fact that James' powers included the control of the Translator – a device with algorithms so advance it could translate the ancient language in all its forms through the ages – it simply would not do to worry the General as the elements he may bring in a misguided attempt at helping may exacerbate the issue.

He may suggest a manhunt, and despite the pleas against such an action, go through with it. Sometimes a situation calls for a delicate touch. Though if he was true with himself, a part of him agreed on the idea of a manhunt. The Relics are too important to fall into Salem's hands.

It was this that had made betrayal of their cause so hard to grasp earlier on. Didn't they understand the gravity of their actions? Did they realize the harm they could do with the powers? It may be that the female traitors bent on causing heartache and mayhem thought, in their warped perception, that they were doing the right thing. Give the criminals their demands and they would leave. And, Ozpin supposed, there was probably some truth in that. If they were dealing with anyone else that is. In the case of Salem, however, she would not be satisfied with merely besting her arch-nemesis, she would want to see the world suffer, just as she did.

In the minds of these traitors, these acts of debauchery against their fellow humans were justified, even righteous. A sad conclusion to come to. It didn't matter that humans and Faunus alike had suffered under the hands of these turncoats repeatedly, victims of damaging guerrilla tactics with little or no reason to them. If the past six months gave them anything to be aware of, it was that enemies were all around – some closer than they would have ever expected.

All of this lent a strong hand to a worry for a missing comrade the Headmaster would normally never consider worrying about. It was not like him to disappear and not tell anyone where he could be found. Especially not with danger looming all around them.

Qrow had behaved like a madman these past months, working himself into the ground trying to find out everything he could about the group of renegade Huntsmen and women plotting against his allies. Running himself literally ragged with exhaustion as he hunted for the betrayals. The warrior did not know that Ozpin was aware of the fact that he had been requesting a great deal of healing services from Tsune, the academy's nurse. She had reluctantly approached the Headmaster, not wanting to go over his head but terrified that the huntsman was pushing himself into serious harm. She had tried to underplay the seriousness of the situation, but her eyes had said everything she was unwilling to. It was why Ozpin had instructed Qrow to attend a meeting yesterday.

Qrow would never have missed such an appointment. He was correct to a fault when it came to Ozpin's protocols, and he never ignored a summon, even if he had to drag himself to the office while close to death. For all his lackadaisical manners, Qrow was fiercely loyal to those he trusts, and it showed.

Ozpin exhaled, trying to calm his thoughts as he did so, turning his attention to the wide expanse through his window.

"This generation's truly the most interesting so far."

"I doubt we had this in mind when we considered how the generation would affect the war."

Ozpin turned his head, startled to realize he had been so distracted by his thoughts that he had not been aware of his Deputy's arrival. His eyes immediately went to Glynda's serious – more serious than usual at least – countenance. He knew the instant he looked into those bright eyes that the professor's news was not going to be good.

"Nothing at all?" Ozpin asked regardless, his troubled emotions coming through far too clearly with the question, despite all attempts to rein them in.

Ozpin moved back to the desk he had left, his Deputy following close at his side. She stood with her scroll held to her chest and her head lowered along with her voice. The walls have ears, more so in this trying time.

"I do not understand this, Ozpin. We should have been able to track him anywhere. Instead reports show that they lost him somewhere North of the Emerald forest, past minor settlements. To be precise, in the middle of nowhere."

She was worried and frustrated, unusual emotions for one so strict and composed. The war was at its earliest and yet, was already taking its toll on the parties involved. However, as he was her boss and dare he say it, friend, it was his job to reassure her or in extreme cases, be the shoulder she leans on.

"It rains much there, Glynda, and they were a full day behind him when they started. It is understandable."

And it truly was. If anyone was to be blamed, it would undoubtedly be him. Sometimes he tends to forget he has millennia worth of knowledge.

"I just can't escape the feeling that he is in trouble." Glynda said tensely, removing her glasses and rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

Ozpin understood his Deputy's anxiety. Qrow meant as much to her as he did to the Headmaster and so, so many others. The morale of Ozpin's faction, usually bolstered by Qrow's drunken yet powerful presence, would have a difficult time rallying after a tragedy of that magnitude. The loss of a Huntsman of Qrow's power and skill would be devastating, and there was no need to mention the open wounds it would leave in dozens of hearts, including the heart of an immortal wizard.

Ozpin's head was aching and he rubbed at his pounding temples. The tension since he'd first noticed something was not right was packed tightly into these two points. Here they were, two of the most powerful of their kind, and they were at a loss? What a sad commentary on the future of the world, Ozpin thought in a rare, bitter moment of fatalism.

Ozpin pushed the feeling and the pain in his head aside as he felt Glynda's eyes on him. She was drained and worried enough without seeing him looking thoroughly defeated. He was supposed to be the strength of his allies.

Ozpin turned his head towards her with a small smile.

"How about we review this sessions' applicants. I am pleasantly surprise at the vast range of skills they possess. Really, I have high hopes for this generation…"

Sometimes diversion is a medicine more powerful than laughter.

* * *

**Ha! Did you think I would make it easy? Review for unrequited love. And a more humane Ozpin.**

**Review with your thoughts.**


	3. - Past Encounter

**Chance Encounter**

* * *

**She knew forces were at work. Could taste the magic that tainted the air. Could feel the deaths taking a toll on her soul. Yet, she didn't want to get involved. So, what was in the smelly, bed-ragged, middle-aged man that drew her curiosity like a moth to a flame. MOD Female Harry. Harry/Qrow. Major canon deviation.**

* * *

**Past Encounter**

* * *

_A year ago_

. . .

Harriet opened her eyes; everything was still. She lay on her right side on the floor, her left arm, bloodied but no longer bleeding, curled over her head. Her head ached, and when she rubbed her hair out of her eyes, it felt hot and sticky.

Hot, bright sunlight poured through the gaping maw where the Great Hall had been. Mangled and partially charred bodies littered the passage. The sight and stench of it made her retch.

When she could breathe again, she forced herself to stand, staggering over the bodies and debris toward the fields outside. She tried to climb down the outside of the dilapidated castle, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. Her foot slipped and she fell. When she hit sand, rather than the field she was expecting, she tumbled and slid down the side of the massive dune created by her outburst.

She was so tired.

Harriet lay in the field, shaking and crying. She had no sense of time, no sense of place. Under her flimsy gray shirt her skin prickled painfully, blistering under the sun's intense rays. She stopped crying and lay still, forcing her mind to focus on the individual grains of sand before her eyes so that her limb relax and regain their strength.

Her breathing gradually deepened, and she allowed the warmth of the sun and the sand to surround her until she felt she was almost one with them. At last, with a deep breath that brought her fully back into the present moment, she sat up. Grains of sand sprinkled down from her shirt and her face onto her long, bloodied fingers.

There seemed to be nothing but sand and sun for as far as her eyes could see. She stood up and clambered back to the top of the artificial dune. Still nothing. No sign of man or beast, no matter which way she turned. A surge of terror threatened to overwhelm the relaxed calm she had just managed to collect for herself.

She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. Tried to get a feel for the place. Answers, she needed answers.

Her eyes snapped open.

There had been a whisper, or something like a whisper, and the vaguely sense of someone she had never seen before in the depths of her mind. She was shaking all over again and she didn't dare close her eyes for fear it would return. And yet, she had learned something from that whisper.

A direction.

_East_.

She started walking, still hugging herself. A sudden chill washed over her, and her head began to pound. She tried to lick her parched lips, but she had barely enough saliva to swallow. As soon as she had moistened her mouth the harsh desert sun dedicated it again.

_Whose voice was that?_ She wondered as she stumbled through the hot sand. _I must have hit my head or something! Or maybe… _She frowned and shook her aching head. _No. No! I must have just hit my head._

She smiled a little, repeating those comforting words. _I must have just hit my head. That's all. I hit my head. It will pass. It will pass._

Like a blade stroke, a shard of her vision flashed into her mind. Two eyes, dark as the void, and something between a warning and a promise in their depths.

She stumbled and fell.

That wasn't head trauma.

"Then I am going crazy." She muttered, picking herself up.

She glanced back over her shoulder at the hulking pieces of her home, aglow against the glaring silver-blue of the sky. The shadows from the ruins groped towards her across the sands as the sun sank lower.

The realization made her hesitate. Wouldn't it be better to go back to it and spend a night in its shelter, rather than venturing into the unknown expanse in front of her.

She entertained the thought for about a few seconds, and then she remembered the carcasses strewn all over the floor of the Hall. She shuddered and gulped against a sudden wave of nausea.

"Can't do that," she rasped. "Can't go back. Must go on."

She kept walking, and walking, and walking, but still there was nothing but sand. Sand, and more sand. And the sun. Finally she passed out of sight of the smoking wreckage of her home, but now she had no way to gauge her progress.

She staggered forward a few more steps and twisted her ankle. A creaking cry tore from her parched throat as she sprawled into the dazzling golden sands. The tiny grains were like so many stones, each one tearing at the skin of her face, hands, and arms, skin already raw from the crash and the burning sun.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and pulled her leg in front of her to examine it. Gingerly she probed the joint and winced. Not broken, but most likely sprained. She flexed it and tried to stand. If she was careful not to put too much weight on it, she could make a go of it.

She limped along again, still bearing East. The sun and the sand were cruelly hot. Her thin gray shirt clung to her back, wet through with sweat. After a few more paces she staggered to a stop. She had reached the top of what seemed to be a ridge of dunes that undulated in a sinewy curve to the north and south. Her path lay straight down the slope, due East.

"Though why I should listen to some stupid voice in my head, I don't know," she croaked.

Her voice sounded loud and strange in this empty land, and her lips hurt when she moved them. She forced her tongue over them, but the more she licked them the worse they felt. They were so badly chapped from the sun and the desert wind that they felt three times their normal size.

She started cautiously down the slope, putting as much weight as she could on her left foot. On the level, limping had worked, but here on the slope it was impossible. She didn't get more than two feet before the sands shifted beneath her and she fell, tumbling all the way to the bottom.

Her eyes burned with pain and frustration and she pounded the sand. She couldn't even force a few tears to soothe the dryness of her eyes. What was the good of surviving the explosion if she was just going to die in the desert anyway? She shoved herself upright and tried to collect her nerves. Falling to pieces now wasn't an option.

A small sliver of shade from the dune behind her cut across the blinding ocean of sand, and she scooted into it to rest for a while. The cool absence of the sun was like a long drink of water, and she leaned against the slope at her back. The sudden change of temperature made her shiver a little.

She scooped up handfuls of sand and let them trickle through her fingers, too exhausted to think. Her flimsy shoes were in shreds, so she pulled them off, wincing as she tweaked her injured ankle. The soles of her feet were burning from the heat of the sand, so she dug her toes into the sand, trying to comfort her skin in the gritty coolness.

How long she sat there she couldn't tell, but gradually she became aware that the patch of shade in front of her was larger than it had been. She stopped pouring sand, stared up at the sky for a moment, and then gingerly got to her feet. The sun was setting.

"Time to go," she mumbled.

Her muscles were stiff now, not just sore, and her body felt so heavy. She didn't make it ten paces before she fell again. Her legs would no longer hold her upright, so she crawled, dragging herself along for what felt like ages.

It was nearing dusk now, and there was still nothing ahead of her but sand. Her muscles trembled, weak with dehydration and heat exhaustion. She could go no further. She stretched out on her stomach, her right cheek on the sand. Strange clouds of sand began to swirl around her and she watched them blankly. They were mesmerizing, those little whirlwinds, dancing between the sky and the ground and red with the glow of the setting sun. As she watched, they began swirling more and more violently, and soon it was not a dance, but a frenzy.

So this will be my end. Buried alive in the sand. Harriet's eyes burned. So many things flashed through her mind, things regretted and things hoped for, and all seemed shadows.

She turned her head to the left and squawked in surprise. Planted inches from her face were black dress shoes, black lioe the slithering shadows. She pushed herself over onto her side and looked up.

A man stood over her.

She blinked slowly at him, capturing details. A gray dress shirt with a tail and dress pants. A longsword swung across his back, hidden partially by a red, tattered cloak. A kid of goggles dangling from pale fingers. A silver cloth bound around his nose and mouth to keep out the sand. Dark hair framing eyes of blood red.

Harriet stared at those eyes, cold seeping into the pit of her stomach. She knew those eyes. At least one person with that eye color. But surely, Voldemort would not go to the trouble of using the Polyjuice potion just to sneak up on her. It will be, in the end, a waste of time.

He pulled the cloth down so that he could speak to her. His jaw was angular and covered with the dark stubble of a beard at its early state.

"Should I even know why you are here?"

He spoke, and she had to use all of her willpower just to stay put. Has this guy never heard of the gargling fluid known as mouthwash.

When she made no answer, still trying not to overtly reel in disgust, he gestured at the swirling sands around them.

"Would have gone for a place with less sand and heat, but everyman to himself, I guess."

"And where do you suggest I go?" she barked hoarsely. She tried to lick her cracked lips. "You got any ideas?"

He made no answer, but crouched next to her and helped her sit up. He pulled a small flask that hung from rope attached to his belt and held it to her lips. A thin trickle of liquid ran into her mouth. She took it eagerly enough but discovered immediately that it wasn't water but something that burned horribly.

Alcohol.

It set her coughing violently, and she shoved his hand away and grabbed at her throat.

"Are you barking?" she wheezed.

His mouth twisted into a grin and he stood, pulling her to her feet with him.

It was another minute before she could finally straighten up and face him. In spite of the nastiness of whatever he had given her, it had restored some of her strength and refreshed her a little.

As he saw that she had recovered, another grin sweated across his pale face.

"I will bring you to shelter." He hesitated for a moment, and then added, "I was told I would find you here."

With her regaining strength came a sudden irrational – or not so irrational, depending at how one looked at it – rush of fury. "By who? And why should they care what happens to me?"

Much to her irritation, the venom in her voice did not seem to surprise him or scare him loose her anger was known to do. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all.

The sand swirled more thinly around them, and he handed her a silver cloth like his own, folded over into a triangle.

"Put this over your mouth and nose. And put this on."

He handed her a pair of glasses. She put them on, thankful that she had taken to wearing contacts at the beginning of the war, and the bands automatically clasped her head snugly, making a tight seal around her eyes. He nodded briefly then gestured to her feet.

"I can't do anything about that right now, I'm afraid."

She looked down and saw how badly the sand had blistered them. Even the sight of them made her wince, and she didn't dare touch them for fear that she would show pain. She would have to wait until her magic had fully recovered though before she attempts anything. It wouldn't do to burn at her already depleted core, in her exhausted state no less.

"Best bet would be to wait till your aura recovers." He glanced up at the horizon and the dunes around them, then beckoned to her. "Come on. The sand will be unforgiving soon. We've got to get to shelter."

"Tell me your name first," she demanded as she tied the cloth over her face and breathed deeply.

He replaced the cloth over his own mouth and nose, and just before he put on his own glasses, his eyes glinted at her in a sudden, hidden smile.

"The name's Qrow. Qrow Branwen."

. . .

_The Present _

. . .

Qrow watched warily as the Master of Death slid into a sitting position, smoothing her short skirt down to a somewhat more proper placement. She then, quite casually, looked up at him with those eerie emerald eyes that always made him feel like she was dissecting him. "What in hell is going on here?" he demanded, unable to help himself as he reached out to steady himself against the bedpost.

She didn't immediately answer, instead getting to her feet in one supple motion as his eyes followed her every movement. She moved very carefully as she reached to take fresh sheets from a stack sitting on a nearby chest. Amazingly, she turned her back on him and, of all things, began to make the bed. It was a harmless, domestic thing, and, to say the least, it was an incongruous act for a woman who was not only immortal, but one of the most ruthless fighters Qrow had ever had the pleasure of seeing in battle.

She had finally set the bed to rights, tossing the sheets that had been covered in strange debris, including what he assumed was his own blood, into a corner. It was after that when she finally turned to face him. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, as if she were a stern parent about to give him a decisive lecture on manners and behavior.

"I will explain once you return to bed," she offered generously.

"I'll do no such thing!" Qrow barked, his eyes flashing with a bottle-red fire quite indicative of his anger. "Answer me. Witch or no, I'm not above—"

Qrow cut himself off as he was struck by a wave of nausea frighteningly resistant to his efforts at mental and physical repression. She was by his side before he knew she was moving, inserting herself under his arm to give him support.

"I swear, Huntsman, if you make me carry you one more inch I will be quite annoyed," she warned, using her considerable leg strength to propel him toward the bed.

Qrow had no choice but to follow her lead. She guided him down with surprising gentleness and an impressive show of physical power. He was quite aware that he was no lightweight, and, in spite of the fact that she was inches shorter than he was, she managed just fine. She had him lying in the bed, covered and pillowed comfortably in a heartbeat. He immediately began to feel better. Well enough to flush at the realization of having shown his weakness to her.

"Don't worry," she said with a smirk he could have done without, "I won't tell."

That, of course, upset him even more. Damn her, she was baiting him on purpose. He responded with coarse anger instead of the gratitude that he would have given to anyone else who had assisted him in such a manner.

"Just answer my question," he snapped.

"Well, if you must know, I am in the process of saving your life." She said this matter-of-factly as she bent to retrieve a bowl from the floor.

She disappeared into the next room before he could respond to that particularly inconceivable idea, but returned moments later with a clean bowl. She reached into the fire and the scent of food thickened in the air. He sat up, unwilling to lie there like some sort of invalid, using a pillow behind his shoulder to help prop himself up while softening the press of his wounded shoulder against the stone wall at his back.

Harriet carried the bowl over to him and, placing a careful knee on the bed, she settled beside him, facing him and extending the offering of food to him. He looked her over suspiciously for a moment and then reached to take the presented food. She held on to it even after his hands encircled it, as if she were afraid he might spill it.

"It wouldn't be the first time," she noted dryly when he gave her a scathing look.

The remark put together a series of disconnected clues floating around in his head with a click. Quickly he realized he had scalded the skin on one of his arms, exactly the kind of burn that would result from hot soup being spilled over it. What was even more disturbing was he finally understood she had been holding exactly such a bowl when he had suddenly grabbed her.

Immediately he scanned her for burns, and for the first time he noticed both of her thighs were scalded a bright red. This, he realized, was why her dress was wet. He had caused her to burn not only him, but herself. An answer, he was understanding, undeserved of someone who he was realizing was intent on nursing him.

Qrow took the bowl from her and set it aside. He took hold of her arm before she could move away, holding her tightly when she would have pulled back. His free hand brushed aside a couple of inches of her dress's material, exposing rapidly forming blisters. She tried to push his hand away, to retreat, but he would not let her. He was aware that he was holding her with his injured arm and she might have made a clean escape if she would only apply a little force, but she was clearly unwilling to do any more damage than he had already done to himself these past few minutes.

Suddenly, Qrow felt like an enormous jerk. Nothing was so shameful as the clarity of a moment like that, and it reflected in his eyes quite clearly.

"Never mind," she insisted, trying to push his hand away once more.

"Harriet…"

"Don't," she commanded sharply. "Don't get all remorseful, Huntsman. I am aware you did not mean it. You need nourishment. If you wish to make me feel better you will brave my culinary skills and take some soup. I need to cool the burns and bathe. The both of us heal rapidly, as you know, so this is a waste of your energy."

"It is a terrible way to thank you for saving my life. I remember now what was happening. That scream…that was you."

"I thought it would be counterproductive to my hard work offering peaceful overtures to your Headmaster if you were found suddenly dead in one of my territories. Believe me, my motivations were highly selfish. As you probably expected."

She finally freed herself, turning away from him and exiting the room quickly. He saw her walk past the fireplace on the other side a couple of times before she retreated to a place some distance away.

Feeling like a complete barbarian, he settled his mind to accomplishing what she had requested of him. He finished the entire bowl of soup by the time he heard her returning to the room just outside the doorway. The only sound she really made was the patter of bare soles on stone. Even so, she walked very lightly, graceful and lithe like a cat. Oddly enough. It was quite some time before she entered the room to retrieve the bowl and take a willow broom to the remaining debris of the spilled food that was on the floor. She remained well out of his reach this time, unusually silent as she worked.

As he watched her in similar silence, Qrow was forced to recall the second time he had seen her. It had been a month or two after he had rescued her in the desert, during the first abduction. The ice queen younger sister's abduction to be precise. It had been there that they had first come to understand that Netsu could be a potential traitor to the light side.

It had been Harriet's sources that had led them to the truth of that particular matter. But as seemed to be his sudden habit around her, he had been hostile to her instead of being grateful. Again, it had been an affliction of pride that had instigated the behavior. He had been very irritated that she had been able to unearth the betrayal where he had not. Irritated and embarrassed. It did not matter that she was better equipped to get such information from the start, it just mattered that she had been the one to tell Ozpin how poorly he had done his job, however unintentional it may have been.

On top of that, he had not been able to take his eyes off her. She was a breathtaking creature, a beauty one could not help but admit to being unparalleled, even if she was an immortal witch. That was saying a great deal, in Qrow 's mind. He knew very well what the books depicting what the title "Master of Death" entails had done to his perspective concerning her. He was prejudiced, angry, and unrelentingly unforgiving. So for him to show any appreciation to any of them for any reason was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle, and a total truth. Huntswomen were very beautiful, inside and out, and there were some that were blindingly attractive, but none he had seen could outshine the witch. She was an emerald beacon, luminescent, and she held herself with pride and stubbornness of dignity befitting of one of her power. He had absolutely no right to be attracted to her on any level, never mind with the ferocity he had experienced. She had turned those enormous eyes on him, meeting his appraisals with an unconcerned air, and Qrow had felt as though she had stolen the very breath from his body with just that single, unblinking look.

It had worsened the day she had joined him in protecting a village from being overrun, after saving her from being skewered. He had seen women in battle countless times, but he had never once seen anything like her. She was a full-blooded huntress, a warrior of remarkable speed and lethal beauty. She was as merciless as he was, efficient once her mind was set to her purpose. She did not hesitate or shy from the kill. In fact, she reveled in it.

Qrow remembered the scent of the hunt on her, the blood of her prey, and the adrenaline of her victory. He remembered that moment vividly because he had never known such a fast and hard reaction of arousal as he had in that singular, unbelievable instant. His blood had been high and hot, the lust and delight of justice riding him like a wicked mistress, and then those emerald eyes of a woman warrior fresh from her victims' throats had skimmed over his body like a siren's touch. It was as if her hands had run over his naked flesh, determined and skilled and just as bold as she was when she hunted anything else.

Then she had spoken to him, completely oblivious of how she had affected him, and made a statement that had haunted him almost day and night for the months since she had uttered it.

He had spoken briefly of his mistrust of her, a knee-jerk reaction to the confusion pounding through his mind, and she had responded.

"_I would think you an utter fool if you did not doubt me, Huntsman. Instead, I am forced to respect your uncommon intelligence. Now what, do you suppose, should I do from there?"_

With those words she had proven herself to be the better person. While he clutched his prejudices and hostilities close to heart, she had once more laid down her ideas of peace and a desire to respect him for exactly what he was. She had humbled him by humbling herself, and he could not forget it.

She had shamed him, angered him, aroused him, and confused him, a deluge of emotions so powerful he didn't even recognize them as his own at first. It had been exactly the same less than an hour ago. She had done it to him all over again, but this time he had been at a disadvantage. In his confusion and weakness in that moment when she had been beneath him, oh so beautiful and so incredibly lush, Qrow had allowed her to see what he had spent these many months hiding from everyone, including himself.

Harriet was an audacious creature, self-assured to a fault and almost cocky in her attitude toward things that would have given anyone else a healthy dose of fear. She never had to second-guess herself, and certainly would not show it if she did. So her silence after his callous treatment of her disturbed him on very deep levels. He did not imagine her sulking in some simpering, feminine way, the ways that had made it easy for him to discard some of his past female acquaintances.

No.

This was the silence of a female predator who was nurturing a pride of her own, trying for all she was worth to remind herself of the greater purpose she served so she wouldn't give in to an urge to break his fool neck. He was forced to remember the self-control she had used as he'd had his hand wrapped around her soft, vulnerable throat. She had not even made a sound when he had inadvertently burned her.

Qrow knew, from what he had read, the Master of Death was impartial in the dealings of death. A being who stayed silent and had not interfered even as thousands were slain. Of course, the worst of the stories were quite exaggerated, as happened in the case of the differing perspectives of a war. But for him to have found her in a state so unlike the ones the legends depicted and for her to advocate for peace, to interfere in the workings of mortals, it was quite… unnerving.

But still, to be so still, so quiet, when he'd had the upper hand? Resisting every instinct he realized must have been screaming at her, trying to force her to protect herself, to strike back, had to have been an act of remarkable inner strength. And one of utter devotion to the cause of peace that she seemed to serve so adamantly.

Qrow rubbed at the ache in his healing chest as he mulled over that piece of information. He was no stranger to powerful women, but this one was exceptional. Unnervingly so. He was not supposed to think in these ways about her. To respect her in any other way than as a worthy opponent was a dangerous pastime. The tides of war could shift, and she could be his enemy by this time tomorrow. It might be needed for balance to be attained in the world. She was, first and foremost, an impartial judge. Or at least that's what the legends depict her as.

Why the hell did that bother him much?

* * *

**Chance Encounter**

* * *

It was nearly midnight – though it was hard to tell since the sky was in a state of perpetual darkness – and Netsu and Kalt stood at attention, their back to the door of the Grimm Queen, Salem's personal lair. "Ma, we've successfully killed Ozpin's little spy as instructed."

"And… you are sure of this?"

"Well… before we could ascertain his death—"

"We were attacked!" Kalt cut in, sending a sideways glance at Netsu.

Salem looked up from the book she was reading, her glasses hanging perilously from the bridge of her nose. She adjusted its position, her eyes fixated on the trembling Maidens in front of her.

"Really?"

"Yes," Netsu continued. "But he was hit with our magic until his aura was completely spent. We are sure of that. He was bleeding profusely by the time we left."

Salem was quiet for a moment. "I'll take your word for it." She set down her book, stood, and walked to the side of the room, avoiding eye contact with either of them. "What is the status on the Relic? Is it still hidden in their vaults?" Salem spoke in a low, threatening voice.

"It was given immediately to Watts upon arrival."

Silence greeted the sentence, until...

"You failed me."

They both stiffened before Kalt hesitantly replied. "How, ma? If we are not being too presumptuous."

Salem appeared thoughtful for a moment, then said softly, "It isn't farfetched to say that I have spent millennia without sensing any true magic. So, when a being uses magic, no matter the distance, I can always sense it. Was it merely a coincidence that immediately after you reported Qrow Branwen's death, I sensed the arcane energy being used."

Netsu swallowed. "No, ma."

Salem said nothing, just slowly nodded. Netsu looked at her quizzically. She had expected the Queen to rage, to explode. Instead Salem's voice was almost mournful, like a jilted lover's. "Is that all you have to report? That you failed?"

Netsu did her best to remain stoic. "Yes, ma."

Salem stared at the ground for a moment, then said, "Okay. You've given me your report."

_Okay?_ They was as baffled as they was nervous. Netsu wondered if Salem were drunk. She had never seen her behave so calmly in the face of failure. Especially when it had to with Ozpin.

"What is the word on Lionheart?" Salem asked. "Has he been captured yet?"

"No, ma. He's vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Even before we left for Qrow. One of our men had him for a while, but he disappeared."

Salem's brow furrowed. "Who disappeared? Lionheart or our man?"

"Both, sir."

Again, Salem seemed unmoved. "It doesn't matter. Lionheart's inconsequential." He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter, then downed a shot and poured another. "Would you care for a drink, Netsu, Kalt?"

"Yes, ma. Thank you, ma," Netsu said, speaking for both her and Kalt, her confusion growing. She had expected Salem's fury. Not a drink. For Dust sake, they had tried to cover up their failure.

Salem poured another shot glass of the caramel-colored liquor and handed it to Netsu, repeating the same for Kalt. "To old times," he said. "To old friends."

"To better times," Both Maidens repeated.

They drank and quickly put the glass down as Salem slowly sipped hers, looking deep in thought.

"So much is changing," Salem said. "So much has changed since the beginning. The world has changed. Constantly changing."

"It has, ma."

"So have we." After a moment Salem said, "We've acquired a Relic where before we had none. And with the way things are progressing, it wouldn't be long till we have the other Relics. We may need to fast forward our plans."

Netsu nodded continuously, agreeing with every spoken word. "What position are we to serve in this plan, ma."

"As an example."

As if on cue, Cinder, along with her associate, Emerald, slithered from the shadows, coming to a stop behind the Maidens.

Netsu paled. "Ma…?"

Kalt however, shouted. "But you need us."

A dark chuckle escaped Cinder's lips. "Correction, we need the powers you wield. You were, in the grand scheme, never necessary."

"Take them to my dwelling. They can serve as food for my pets."

Netsu shuddered as the realization of Salem's pronouncement spread over her.

"Yes, ma," Cinder and Emerald intoned.

"My Queen," Netsu said.

"Yes," Salem said. "I am still your queen. You took a vow to serve me until your death, which is precisely what I am requiring of you now — your death. And in fulfilling this duty, your colleagues will understand that I expect my orders to be carried out, and failure is not an option." She nodded at Cinder.

"Do you expect us to go down—"

"No. And for that reason, precautions were put in place. It wouldn't do for you to kill my prized pawns at this early stage." Salem said, staring dispassionately as the twitching and spasmodic Maidens were escorted outside the room."

When everyone was gone, Salem downed the rest of her drink, then poured another. "To old friends."

Her book laid open, the title beautifully emblazoned on a rather dusty old parchment. It read: _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

* * *

**And there goes canon events. Review with your thoughts.**


End file.
